Light & Shadows
by natalieashe
Summary: Sherlock and Lestrade are attempting a relationship, both convinced it will never work. Will inexperience be their downfall? Will their past trip them up? Can they even imagine a future together? Sherstrade Sequel to 'Do I Detect Desire' Rated M for M/M sex. Slightly more angsty in places than previous stories.
1. Chapter 1

He needed John. Where _was_ he? He'd sent a text seventeen minutes ago emphasizing that his presence was required _urgently_ at 221b but so far nothing - not even an acknowledgement - and he was growing desperate. He prodded at the sticky red substance that was threatening to explode again, its lava-like consistency emitting fat bubbles that made a sort of glumping noise as they burst. Figuring the experiment was at an end he dumped it into a bowl just as John burst through the door.

"Sherlock! Sorry, my battery died mid-text. Are you ok?" The doctor panted, quickly scanning the detective head to toe. "Oh my god, is that _blood_ on your face?"

"Tomato sauce. I've made you dinner. Sit!"

"What? Why? Mary is expecting me for dinner. For god's sake Sherlock I thought you were in trouble!"

"I am!" He said crossly, "now eat!"

"No way, not now! If you're in trouble we discuss that first, not food!"

Sherlock sighed dramatically and frowned.

"I'm in trouble _because_ of the food," he explained patiently to the bemused doctor. "I invited Greg to dinner tomorrow night. It's supposed to be our first proper date and I read that cooking for someone is a romantic gesture."

His mouth twisted on the word 'romantic' like it left an unpleasant taste, rather like the first three attempts which were now safely contained in the bin. For the first time John noticed every available surface of the kitchen was covered with open, sauce-splattered, recipe books.

"Where did you get all of these?"

"Mary, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, the couple next door, and the library." He gestured at each untidy pile with the wooden spoon, adding to the blood-like spatter pattern reminiscent of a crime scene. "Couldn't find anything I liked that had terms in it I had any interest in understanding. Things like 'julienne' and 'bain marie' and 'fricassee'. I found some dried pasta you left in the cupboard that seemed a straightforward alternative and the instructions printed on the packet seemed simple enough."

"O-Kay," John said slowly. "But Greg knows you don't cook. It's why you live on convenience microwave muck and take-away when we're not around to cook you something healthy. Why would you tell him you'd cook for him?"

Sherlock tried not to look shifty, in no way prepared to admit he may have made a mistake. He hadn't been able to stop prodding at Greg's former relationship with Kate, poking at the details like one might tongue a sore tooth. The Wonderful Kate, as she had lodged in his mind palace, was apparently an expert in every area of Sherlock's inexperience. Greg had finally grown exasperated with his constant need for reassurance.

"Greg and I had a minor disagreement. I may have implied that I was more experienced than I actually am."

"We're still talking about the kitchen, right? We haven't made some sort of tangential shift to the bedroom?"

"It _started_ in the bedroom, but that's not important. Greg said that DI Waterstone and I were very similar in some respects and maybe that's why he liked me. I said there were many things I could do better, and I may have suggested cooking was one of them. In my defense, he did say she was awful in the kitchen."

"So this is some sort of attempt to prove that you, his new boyfriend, are better than his ex-girlfriend? And this started in the bedroom?"

"John!" Warned Sherlock, "We aren't discussing that."

"Only you could fight two days into a relationship. Most people don't leave the honeymoon period for at least a couple of weeks!"

"Shut up and eat!"

He slid the bowl across the table towards John with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. John eyed it warily, entirely too familiar with Sherlock's capacity for disaster in the kitchen, and fearing this was an experiment. John knew from bitter experience that this probably meant he was a guinea pig for something unpleasant. Nervously he sat and regarded the dish in front of him.

"Well go on then, it won't bite!"

"What is it?"

"Pasta with tomato sauce. That's all."

"And it has no exotic ingredients? I'm not going to fall asleep face first? Or find I lose the next twenty-four hours?"

"Of course not. I'm planning on serving it to Greg; I just need your reaction."

He paused with the fork halfway to his lips.

"Reaction? Please tell me it has no aphrodisiac properties? Because that goes well beyond the bounds of friendship even if I do want you and Greg to get along. And Mary still isn't really up for anything too, um, vigorous. And because I've clearly put that thought in your head - I can _see_ you thinking - I'll just say that drugging Greg to make him amenable to make-up sex is not acceptable under any circumstances. Promise me?"

Sherlock scowled at the doctor, mentally filing that little gem in a drawer marked 'ways to put things right when I mess up', and growled "Promise!" John could be so boring.

With a sharp nod of his head, and against his better judgment, John lifted the forkful mouth-wise. He could tell by the flaccid way the pasta spirals dangled limply from the tines that it was a bit over-cooked. One slimy piece slid from the fork to plop wetly back into the bowl. Al-dente was history apparently. The sauce didn't look too bad, but the evidence all over the kitchen may suggest he was being optimistic. _Come on John, you were a soldier for goodness sake. You've eaten worse things than this._ He closed his eyes and bravely took the mouthful and...

"That's not too bad actually," he admitted, "not much bite to your pasta - you need to cook it for less time - and the sauce is a little bland - try adding a splash of Balsamic vinegar and a touch more garlic. But otherwise, good job!"

He grinned at the consulting detective who was still watching him anxiously, searching his friend's face for any trace of deceit, but he could see none.

"Really? You think it's acceptable? Yes!"

He punched the air in triumph, hopping round the kitchen laughing. John grinned back, pleased to see Sherlock genuinely excited about something that didn't involve a case. The jealous niggle at the back of his brain was firmly squashed. _He's happy, John, and happy means you're less torn between him and your family. He did plenty for you that showed he cared; this is just cooking_.

"Serve it with a green salad. If you want to cheat you can buy bags of ready prepared that will be plenty for the two of you and will save you time. Are you doing dessert?"

"Um, got that covered," Sherlock said quickly, thinking of the tub of mint-choc-chip ice cream he'd stashed in the freezer. He hadn't yet decided if he'd take it out a few hours early to thaw. His cheeks grew pink at the thought; John definitely didn't need to be reminded about that, but he hoped Greg would appreciate it. A nice bottle of wine sat at the ready, but definitely no whisky this time!

"Ok, so do you need me for anything else?"

Sherlock cleaned splatters of sauce from a couple of books and handed them over.

"You can return these to Mary for me with my thanks. Tell her they'll expand her repertoire if she bothers to open them. The spines weren't even cracked!"

"Yes, well. I'll pass on your thanks but maybe not the comment. I'm fine with her repertoire - enough so that I don't fancy spending the night on the couch anyway!"


	2. First Date

**A/N: Giving you two chapters to start this story off, just because I want to draw you in :-D As is normal for me I have the entire thing written and will edit according to response :-)**

Sherlock paced anxiously around the flat checking his watch against the microwave clock again. Both read exactly the same time, two minutes further on than the last time he checked. Everything was ready to go; salad prepared (packet emptied into the bowl anyway), sauce simmering on low, wine breathing and ice cream melting. Pulse racing, stomach churning. He paused at the window again, looking down into the street, relieved to see Greg's silver head emerging from a taxi. The older man glanced up at the window and smiled at him, immediately calming some of his fears.

It hadn't been a proper fight, not really, but Sherlock was dismayed to find how unsettled it left him. He didn't understand why; he and Lestrade had been bickering constantly for the best part of ten years so it was hardly a new experience, but he felt anxious about this one. Feeling like this - allowing himself to _feel_ anything at all - was the main reason he had avoided any such intimate human interaction since... Well for a very long time, anyway.

Greg's footstep sounded on the stair, and suddenly he was there, framed in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with a quizzical smile on his face.

"You ok? You didn't look happy to see me just now at the window."

"Yes, I'm fine," he said briskly, "just watching out for you so I knew when to turn stuff on."

He walked past him to the kitchen without pause and began fiddling with the knobs on the cooker. He didn't realize Greg had moved until a pair of muscular arms slid around his waist and his chin rested lightly on his shoulder close to his ear.

"Are you still mad at me? Because if you're offering to turn stuff on, I'm all yours, but only if you stop being cross at me."

His breath tickled against his neck tantalizingly and he leaned back against the other man, wanting the uneasiness to be gone.

"I'm not cross," he said tightly.

"Liar!" He whispered against his skin, and Sherlock shifted against him so Greg's chest was pressed closely against his back. Greg's tongue flicked against his earlobe and then he blew softly over it making Sherlock shiver. "I was teasing you, you know? You were so keen to try and make it the best experience we'd ever had you forgot it was the first time for both of us. It wasn't ever going to be perfect, but it was bloody hot as far as I was concerned."

"Yes but we didn't get very far. And then you brought your ex-girlfriend into it and that killed the mood somewhat."

"To be fair we'd already gone as far as we were going to get by that point. And she was never my girlfriend – fuck-buddies, that's all." He smiled against Sherlock's neck. "Still slightly embarrassed you know? Haven't been that quick since I was a bloody teenager and Lucy Jackson went down on me at a party!"

Sherlock hadn't been far behind him spilling over Greg's hand, both of them still mostly dressed, but somehow that had made it more erotic. For a couple of first-timers it probably wasn't the stuff of epic romantic fiction, but it hadn't been a complete disaster. He felt Greg's body shaking against him and realized his boyfriend was chuckling.

"What are you laughing at?" He huffed.

"Just remembering your face when I came in your mouth. It's the only time in my life I can recall hilarity almost overtaking my orgasm. You looked so shocked but sort of blissed out too."

"You didn't warn me that's what it would be like. One minute I'm happily making you groan, the next I'm fighting to swallow and it just kept coming!"

"How would I know what it's like? Never done it before either. Was it awful?"

"No, just surprising."

Greg's mouth was nipping and kissing down his neck in a most distracting way but the saucepan gave a sudden hiss as it began to boil over. Cursing he pulled away from Greg's embrace and gave his full attention to their food.

"Before we get too carried away, let's eat."

"Regular little housewife."

"Sod off and pour the wine."

Sherlock found himself relaxing as they ate. Another two practice runs had paid off and the pasta was pleasingly edible. Greg tucked in enthusiastically, which was a greater compliment than any words could be. He even managed a reasonable portion himself so his boyfriend wouldn't hassle him about the need for food. _Boyfriend_. Still felt odd to say that in his head. He felt too old to be someone's boyfriend - the very word conjured up images of youth, not someone a couple of years off forty.

He cleared their plates away while Greg topped up their glasses and set them on the coffee table, making himself comfortable on the sofa. Sherlock suddenly felt foolish looking at the tub of half-melted ice cream. How was he supposed to work _that_ into the evening without it looking like a clear invitation to very messy sex? But then he supposed that was the point... He made a sound of frustration and grabbed the pot and a spoon before he could change his mind. He didn't look at Greg when he slapped it down on the coffee table between their glasses, afraid he'd be ridiculed. He sat down abruptly at the opposite end of the sofa and waited tensely for Greg's reaction.

"Oh wow!"

"Wow? That's it?"

Greg grinned wickedly, his dark chocolate eyes sparkling mischievously in the dimmed light.

"You can't just slam that down in front of me like a challenge and expect anything more coherent when I'm the one with almost perfect recall of that night. Get over here right now Holmes and bring that tub with you. I think I'm ready for dessert."

It would get messy, of course it would. Sherlock could tell that just from the way Greg looked him up and down lustfully. He insisted on removing his shirt before Greg was allowed to open the tub so he wouldn't wreck yet another one. Greg didn't particularly care about his shirt, but if there was an opportunity for him to press his naked chest against the younger man's while they kissed, then he sure as hell wasn't going to turn it down. Once the shirts had been removed it seemed a shame to wreck Sherlock's trousers or Greg's jeans so they quickly disappeared too.

"Right then. Eating ice cream in just my pants. Never thought that could ever be a turn on."

Greg pulled the detective's long legs across his lap and ran his hand up his shin to his knee. The tub was wet and cold in his hand, chilling his fingers perfectly for him to lightly caress Sherlock's warm skin and he chuckled softly when Sherlock let his left foot fall to the floor so Greg's fingers could continue unhindered up his inner thigh.

"Cheeky. Cold is clearly hot as far as you're concerned."

"The sensation is delightful."

"Delightful? Really? God sometimes you're so damn posh, it makes me feel like some kind of randy below stairs employee."

Sherlock smirked at him. "That's a fantasy for another day, but for the record, I've never had a servant in any sense of the word."

He took the tub from Greg and opened it, holding it out so he could dip the spoon and lift it to his lips. Greg shoveled a loaded spoonful into his mouth, sucking on the spoon greedily and rolling the little chocolate chips around his mouth until they melted. Sherlock watched the motion of his mouth, the hollowing of his cheeks as he sucked at the spoon and the quick flash of his tongue as he licked it clean.

"How do you manage to make that look so sensual?" he breathed.

"I'm only eating ice cream," Greg winked, "You're imagining what it would be like to be the spoon. Am I forgiven yet?"

"No," Sherlock scowled.

"Shame."

Greg dipped the spoon again, laughing around it at his detective. His free hand was still caressing Sherlock's inner thigh a couple of inches short of where the detective really wanted him to be, but he wasn't going any further until Sherlock got over his sulk. He allowed a small dribble of ice cream to run down the spoon handle towards his fingers, and then unhurriedly caught it with the tip of his tongue, running it up the length of the metal shaft. Sherlock made a small sound, his eyes glued to the sweep of Greg's tongue. God he really wanted to taste mint-choc-chip… Actually, he didn't give a damn about mint-choc-chip; he just wanted to engage with that mouth! Deliberately he dipped his finger in the ice cream and painted a thin stripe of pale green down his chest and stomach, stopping just above his navel; it was still gloriously chilly. He made a show of ignoring Greg while licking his finger clean.

"I hope you're going to forgive me now, or you're going to end up horribly sticky, and not in the way you're hoping for." Greg chuckled.

He cocked an eyebrow and licked his lips, tossing the spoon onto the coffee table and taking the tub from his lover. Wriggling out from under Sherlock, he knelt on the sofa between his legs, resting his palms on the detective's thighs. The green strip was starting to spread.

"You're a tease, Lestrade," Sherlock growled, lifting his foot from the floor and trapping the other man with his legs.

"Yes I am. I'm not in any hurry to get you off love. I'm hoping we can last longer than ten minutes this time!"

He dipped his head to Sherlock's stomach, accidentally nudging the younger man's half-hard cock with his chin. God that was where he wanted Greg's mouth. Just the thought made things firmer, but his partner had already moved on to the sticky sweet trail that he'd laid for him. Greg lapped at the pale green ice cream, humming against Sherlock's stomach like a self-satisfied cat. He alternated the licks with open mouthed kisses and light grazes of his teeth, working his way upwards. By the time he laid his lips against his boyfriend's eager mouth he was stretched out fully over his body, every inch of them pressed together.

"Had enough dessert?" Sherlock asked between sweet minty kisses.

"Had enough ice cream. Not sure I could ever get enough of this."

He nibbled at Sherlock's full lower lip, soothing with a swipe of his tongue, and then bringing his lips to join with it. Sherlock's mouth moved forcefully against his, his tongue sliding against Greg's in quick darts that had Greg chasing around their mouths. One slim hand curled around the back of his neck, guiding his head to improve the angle so they fit together perfectly. His other hand ghosted down his back to the sweet spot just above the cleft of his arse that Sherlock had discovered was a surprising erogenous zone for his boyfriend. He slipped a single finger under the band of his pants and traced small circles over it making Greg squirm against him, caught between ticklish and turn-on. Greg broke their kiss and relocated his mouth to the similarly sensitive spot on Sherlock's collar bone, sucking and biting and it wasn't long before they were rutting against each other.

"Bedroom?" Asked Sherlock breathlessly.

"Now!" Agreed Greg.


	3. A New Case

Sherlock curled up in his chair, idly plucking at the strings of his violin, a soft smile curving his lips. If he had to describe this sentiment it would probably be contentment. It was quite an alien feeling in relation to another person and wasn't entirely welcome, but so far his relationship with Lestrade was- more than tolerable. The DI was fond of touching him and hugging him, which he found horribly distracting at times, but he did enjoy the kissing much more than he ever considered he would. Yes, Greg found some interesting uses for his mouth that gave Sherlock plenty of ideas for distracting him when he did something a bit not good that would normally earn him an ear bashing. They hadn't yet been very adventurous sexually, both of them keen to take it slow, but so far it had been extremely satisfying. He had even endured a couple of hours cuddling afterwards, snoozing beside his lover, but by 4am he was wide awake and restless so he had sneaked back to his chair in the sitting room. Greg hadn't even stirred.

He became aware of an insistent rhythmic buzzing emanating from the far side of the room. It ceased, only for it to start up again a couple of minutes later, repeating the pattern twice more. Eventually Sherlock decided it was probably important enough that he should locate Greg's phone and take it to him. He found it on the floor under the sofa where it must have fallen from his jeans pocket. It was Donovan, according to the caller Id, and this was her sixth attempt at calling.

"Yes?"

"Boss-? Um, you're not-?"

"Hang on, I'll get him."

He shook Greg awake enough to kiss him lightly on the lips and hand him the phone. Greg tried to pull him into a deeper kiss but Sherlock gently untangled his fingers from his hair and whispered "Donovan. Might be a case."

"Bollocks!" He muttered, but lifted the phone to his ear. "Lestrade speaking, what do you want Donovan? It's 5.30 on a Sunday morning for god's sake! The first Sunday I've had off in a month, I might add!"

"Sorry Boss, I've been trying to get you for a while. Tried you at home too but you didn't answer. Where are you? Are you free to talk?"

Sherlock settled back onto the bed behind Greg, snaking an arm around his waist and rolling him so he was leaning against his chest. Greg frowned over his shoulder when Sherlock began to drop tiny kisses on his neck not far from the phone. He chuckled softly against his neck. "Give over, you idiot," He whispered at the maddening man, then to Donovan, "Yes Sally, fire away."

"Um, we've got a body on the Eye, Boss. Female, early twenties, looks like a poisoning."

"Poisoning? We need to go." Sherlock muttered, sucking a dark purple bruise just above Greg's collar bone. Greg couldn't help his sharp intake of breath.

"Boss-?"

"Hang on Sally." He pushed Sherlock off. "Instead of trying to listen, go make coffee?" he hissed.

"Spoilsport," Sherlock rumbled, but shuffled off the bed obligingly. If Greg needed him for a case he'd be there; he wouldn't learn what he needed from eavesdropping on his conversation with Sally Donovan.

"Who are you with?" Sally asked curiously.

"Um, no one special. We'll see you in an hour."

Greg disconnected the call, swinging his legs out of bed and searching around for his discarded underwear. Sherlock leaned against the door glowering at him. "Did you mean that?"

"What?" he said absently. "Have you seen my pants?"

"That I'm no one special."

The phrase had made Sherlock's stomach twist in a peculiar way that he didn't like at all. He didn't want anyone at the Yard knowing about their relationship, but equally he didn't want to be dismissed to Sally Donovan, of all people, as 'no one special'. The woman had been less insulting to him since his return, but she still looked at him with the same disgust and contempt that screamed 'freak' even though she didn't verbalize it much anymore. He pulled his dressing gown more tightly around his thin body against the sudden chill that had nothing to do with the level of the thermostat. Instantly Greg was there, wrapping his arms snugly around his waist and holding his gaze.

"Of course I didn't mean it like that. I just- well I didn't think we wanted to announce anything just yet. Early days, and all that. You answered my phone at 5.30 in the morning. I'd be pretty disappointed if she wasn't curious; she's supposed to be an observant detective." Sherlock snorted and Greg ignored him. "I'm going to shower while you make that coffee – white, two sugars. If you're coming with me I suggest you shower too."

Just under an hour later they hurried across Jubilee Gardens towards the famous London Eye landmark to be met by a scowling Donovan. Greg was dressed in his casual clothes from the previous evening that had spent the night on the living room floor, so he looked unkempt, while Sherlock looked his usual immaculate self in a black suit and teal shirt under his Belstaff. Sally looked from one to the other curiously, noting that Sherlock's hair was still damp and Lestrade appeared to be wearing the detective's scarf, presumably to try and cover up the massive hickey on his neck!

"It was _you_ who answered the DI's phone. What were you doing with him so early?" she asked sourly as Sherlock marched past her towards the crime scene. She trotted along behind him, leaving Lestrade to follow in their wake.

"Jogging!" he smirked.

"What? _You_, and _him_, were jogging? You're joking!"

"Nope. Quick five mile run then stopped off at Baker Street to freshen up and get breakfast. New health regime. Doing wonders for Lestrade's waistline, don't you think?"

He ducked under the tape leaving her gaping after him like a goldfish. She certainly couldn't picture either man breaking a sweat by running for pleasure. Her DI appeared beside her waiting for the details of the scene before he followed Sherlock under the tape. She blatantly checked out his body to see if there'd been any discernable changes over the last few weeks. None that she could swear to.

"Enjoy your run?"

"Huh?"

"Holmes said you stopped at Baker Street to freshen up."

"Oh yeah. Heavy night out, kipped on his sofa and got a shower before we came here. Want to bring me up to speed?"

Donovan shook her head. Lestrade's story had more of a ring of truth to it and would explain some woman chowing on his neck. Probably got so pissed he couldn't even remember her name; probably not even his own! She couldn't picture the detective getting drunk with him, but Holmes was clearly winding her up as usual. She refused to let him get to her today.

When the two officers entered the cabin Sherlock was on his knees peering closely at the body examining the woman's swollen features. His face was so close to hers that it looked like he would kiss her, but a few sharp inhalations told Greg he was trying to identify scents. He looked away when his imagination started to wander to images of Sherlock in that position under other circumstances. His cheeks flamed and he cleared his throat noisily. Sherlock pulled back abruptly to kneel, regarding Greg irritably.

"Must you make so much noise when I'm working?"

"What? You're waiting for her to tell you who did it? Don't think that's going to happen."

Greg sounded testy. Normal behaviour for a crime scene then. Not much chance of anyone deducing they were lovers if they continued to be snippy with one another. Sherlock could do that.

"Already did actually. Can't believe you haven't deduced it for yourself, but then you do go around with your eyes half closed most of the time."

The detective checked her hands, examining her fingernails and wrists.

"Come on then genius, let's have it." Greg snapped.

"Fine! Very straightforward really. There was a corporate reception here last night. There are two open boxes of promotional material for the company over there on the bench. Presumably she came back to retrieve them. Her killer accompanied her here, ostensibly to carry the boxes but his intention was to have a sexual encounter. Consensual, not rape, by the fact her clothes do not show any sign of disturbance."

"He could have redressed her?"

"There's normally an awkward look to clothing that has been replaced on a dead body that you don't find when you've dressed yourself. She's wearing sheer tights that would be easily torn if any kind of force was involved. She removed and restored them extremely carefully which proves she was a willing participant."

"So they had sex? We'll get DNA then."

"Possibly, but I expect he used a condom. Wouldn't do to impregnate the mistress while the wife was entertaining the guests."

"How do you know that?"

"Logical assumption. Invitation dropped on the floor outside states 'plus guest'. If he was single and here alone why would they be sneaking around?"

"Wouldn't expect them to do it in the public bar!" Greg said sarcastically.

Sherlock ignored him, taking his magnifying glass from his pocket and examining a mark on the girl's neck.

"Necklace has been torn off. Thin gold chain judging by the width and depth of the scratch. Snapped relatively easily. There's also a ring missing from her wedding finger - recently engaged as there's no pale band of skin yet, but there is a very slight indentation. She had a severe nut allergy which was a contributory factor in her death. Cardiac arrest was probably the actual cause but Molly can confirm that. You're looking for a missing adrenaline pen. She would have carried it on her person at all times during an event like this, just in case there was any food contamination that caused a reaction."

"So you're saying it's not poison?"

"Of a sort, I suppose. Anaphylaxis. Someone deliberately gave her chocolate containing nuts and left her to die. I can smell chocolate in the foaming around her mouth. I would arrest the boss if I was you. I think you'll find the missing necklace probably belonged to his wife and this woman was wearing it to flaunt their affair. He decided he'd prefer to stay married."

"Ok. Right. Donovan, any questions?"

She shook her head and started issuing instructions to the rest of the team, leaving the two men alone with the body.

"I was hoping we could have a lazy Sunday together but it looks like I'll have to spend at least a couple of hours overseeing things here. Do you mind? We could meet up later?"

Sherlock shrugged. A lazy Sunday suggested inactivity, something he wasn't good at and didn't particularly relish. There was only so much kissing they could do before they inevitably ended up in bed, and then there would be sex, which he would enjoy _very_ much, but then everything after that would be tedious indolence. He supposed he would have to learn to cuddle. There was probably a knack to it; a trick to making all that physical contact and idleness pleasurable, but he had yet to find it.

"Ok, see you later. Text me if anything else interesting comes up!" Sherlock called as he stalked off across the park.


	4. A Baby & a Bump in the Road

Sherlock was bored, so he decided to do what he often did when he could find nothing of interest to occupy his time, namely entertain John.

"Aren't you dressed yet? I've been up for hours! Solved a case already." He announced as he flounced past the furious doctor into their home and slumped on their sofa. John glared at him and wondered how quickly he could get to his gun and what the current prison time might be for murdering an extremely annoying and inconsiderate consulting detective. He was surprised at how level his tone was, when contemplating the quickest way to bump him off.

"Sherlock, its 8am on a Sunday morning and we've been awake most of the night with a screaming baby. If you've dragged me from my bed just to tell me how awesome you are I will actually kill you."

Sherlock felt affronted at the lack of warmth in John's welcome. John had specifically asked him to let him know how his first date had gone, and here he was ready to spill all the details. Well, perhaps not _details_; he didn't need to trouble John with the intricacies of their bedroom activities, but a rundown of the events of the evening, and an assessment of their implications. Wasn't that the whole purpose of a best friend? To listen to you bang on about how wonderful your dates were? He had feigned an interest in John's dates in the past, he was certain.

"Haven't you trained her to sleep at night yet? Honestly John, I bought you a book on that very subject. Have you even read it?"

There was a wail from the bedroom, closely followed by a tearful screech of defeat from Mary who appeared moments later with a squirming pink bundle which she dumped into her husband's arms. "Your turn, I can't take any more. I need some sleep John, or I will go insane," she sobbed. Sherlock was shocked at her appearance. Her blonde hair was greasy and limp, and there were dark circles marring the pale skin around her eyes. She wore a stained pair of pajamas buttoned up incorrectly and not a scrap of makeup.

"You look dreadful; are you eating? Maybe you should take a shower?"

"Fuck you, Sherlock," she replied through her tears, and almost ran for the sanctity of the bedroom slamming the door behind her.

John gritted his teeth and jiggled the yowling child against his shoulder, which only served to make her scream louder. As he paced the room heading away from the detective Sherlock could see her tiny bright red, scrunched up face bumping against her father's shoulder as he desperately tried to soothe her back to sleep. The noise was tremendous and grated on his ears making him wince.

"What's wrong with her? Or is she always this earsplitting?"

"She's over-tired." John replied, sounding equally exhausted.

"So why doesn't she just sleep?"

"Because she's a ten week old baby and they're not known for being reasonable about that kind of thing. Look, can you hold her for a minute while I go check on Mary and see that she's ok?"

Sherlock looked horrified and took several steps backwards away from his friend.

"No way! She'll cry."

"In case you hadn't heard Sherlock, she's screaming the fucking house down as it is. You really can't make it any worse. _Please_! Mary's really struggling and I just need to give her a hug or something. You were daft enough to come here, so now the least you can do is _help_!"

John didn't give him a chance to object any further, just thrust his screeching daughter into the stunned detective's arms and followed his wife into the bedroom firmly closing the door behind him. Sherlock held her gingerly, scared stiff of the angry puce child that waved her minute fists at him with vigorous displeasure. He gave her a tentative jiggle, which didn't help, so he swapped it for an awkward rocking motion as he strode around the room.

"You really are quite a stupid child if you haven't yet learned that sleep assuages tiredness," he cooed. "If you just closed your eyes and stopped all the yelling you might feel better after a while. I think your parents might too. Watsons don't appear to function well on minimal rest; it makes you all terribly cantankerous."

Surprisingly the deep timbre of his voice seemed to be soothing the child, or at least she seemed to be decreasing in volume in order to hear what he was saying. Apparently even tiny children could be reasoned with if you supplied a valid argument.

"So, can we reach an accord to stop all the noise at least? You really have far too much to say for someone who's only been in the world ten weeks. You can't have that much to complain about surely? At least you have someone to make sure you eat and sleep when you should, even if you don't want to."

"Sounds like someone I know," chuckled a familiar voice. "Your daddy used to look after Sherlock like that. I think he might be a bit jealous, don't you?"

"Am not!" Sherlock retorted, but he was smiling. "How did you track me down?"

"Work didn't really need me so I sent Mary a text asking where you might be on a Sunday morning so I could surprise you. She said you'd probably turn up here expecting breakfast, so I was on my way over when I got another text begging me to take you away. I offered to take this gorgeous girl with us for an hour so they could get a bit of rest."

The child had quieted to soft whimpers and little jerks like hiccups in Sherlock's arms. Without realizing it, he had snuggled her inside his huge coat and had adopted a more rhythmic sway to his body as he stepped around the small room. She was a comforting warm presence to hold onto that reminded him of his beloved Redbeard, and was altogether more agreeable now she wasn't making a racket. Her bright blue eyes were looking more unfocused, as she fought to stay awake.

"Do you realize that's the first time you've held her since John and Mary brought her home from the hospital? Every time they've tried to get you to take her before you've always found something more urgent that needed doing."

Greg fiddled with the pram, eventually figuring out how to secure the baby into it. He showed Sherlock how to place her, and then carefully fastened the padded straps over the tiny girl's chest. She began to cry again, but with less robustness than before, so they hurriedly exited the house and set off down the street.

"I never really saw the point of her before," Sherlock admitted.

"I don't think babies are meant to have a point, as such. Carrying on the family genes aside. She's cute though, don't you think?"

"She's fairly inoffensive once she's asleep. Evidence that she may be lacking in intelligence however, if she can't deduce the simple fact that sleep is the answer to tiredness."

"So says the man who is renowned for not allowing himself to sleep even when he's physically and mentally exhausted. A lack of common sense, rather than intelligence, love."

Greg stopped in the street with one hand on the pram, sliding the other around his boyfriend's waist and hugging him tightly.

"It's not a weakness to let someone get close you know? Takes a lot of strength to allow yourself to be that vulnerable, in fact. I know you find it difficult to show affection, but I'm a patient man. If this little one can win you over, then I reckon I'm in with a chance of getting a few cuddles eventually too."

Sherlock swallowed nervously, but didn't move away from Greg's arm.

"I'm not very good with this kind of thing, I'm sorry, but I'm trying."

"You can be very trying, love. It's one of the reasons I lose my temper with you so much."

He winked and pecked a small kiss on the corner of Sherlock's mouth which he was pleased to see had twisted into his familiar smirk, but he was surprised when Sherlock didn't move away. The detective's hand cradled his jaw, smoothing his thumb along the rough stubble that shadowed his face. He leaned in and pressed his lips deliberately against Greg's in a brief but purposeful kiss. A group of teenage girls passed, giggling at the sight of two grown men with a pram, kissing in the street.

"Um, Sherlock? I think we may have to concede that we may be slightly gay," Greg laughed. Sherlock hummed in agreement.

All was silent when they returned to the Watson home, including the baby who slumbered peacefully in her pram. They left her there, afraid to awaken the storm if they attempted to shift her to the Moses basket. Greg went to search out breakfast while Sherlock checked on John and Mary. He found them curled together, snoring softly, the tension in their faces finally smoothed by proper sleep. John shifted slightly but didn't wake, so he closed the door softly and went to find Greg. He was making toast in the kitchen, slathering butter and jam onto the pile on the plate and munching on another piece as he worked. Sherlock stepped towards him and awkwardly curled his arms around the other man's waist.

"Oh! Nice."

Greg paused in his task enjoying the feeling of being held, albeit a bit stiffly. He raised his eyebrows when Sherlock turned him around so they could kiss.

"This is me trying to initiate affection."

"Doing well so far. Practice makes perfect."

Greg ran his fingers through the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck, tugging gently. Now that felt good. Sherlock had never really given much thought to his hair, but Greg seemed to find it fascinating and took every opportunity to tangle his fingers in it.

"Is it too long?" He asked abruptly.

"What?"

"My hair. Do you think it's too long?"

Greg gave an experimental tug, and then brought both hands up to sweep through the mass of loose curls. One hand snagged on a knot making the detective yelp. "Oops, sorry. I think it's perfect," he said, using it to guide Sherlock's mouth within kissing distance again. "Gives me something to hang on to when I want to snog you thoroughly."

"Your toast is getting cold. You hate cold toast."

"Yes I do," murmured Greg against his lips between kisses, "but you are very distracting."

"Oh great! _Must_ you? In my kitchen?"

The couple turned to see John standing in the kitchen door shoving a hand through his short hair making it stand on end. He huffed in irritation and marched to the kettle, thrusting it under the tap, clashing it back onto its stand and flicking it on. He ignored the other two men, glaring at nothing out of the window.

"All ok?" Greg asked.

"Marvelous. I think I preferred it when you were insulting each other." John snapped. "Oh sod it; I'm going for a shower!"

Sherlock was confused by John's heated tone. He stared after the shorter man, a small frown wrinkling between his eyebrows. He made to follow him but Greg refused to disentangle his hands from his hair resulting in them engaging in an odd shuffling dance while they decided if he should go or stay. Greg won the battle, pulling him into a ferocious kiss that startled him and almost made him forget about the doctor's sudden departure. Almost.

"Why is John angry?" He asked the second Greg's lips left his. Greg sighed, knowing things were probably going to get complicated.

"I think he's jealous."

"Jealous? Of what?"

"Of us. Me and you, together."

"Why? Oh! How did I miss _that_? You do socialise together a lot, but I didn't think there was any romantic interest there. Not my area of expertise I suppose."

"Not me, you dolt, _you_!"

Sherlock knew of course - John's frequent protestations of 'not gay' every time Sherlock had allowed his guard to slip a little to let something like emotion through had been like a huge banner over his head that told the story, but Sherlock wasn't capable of pushing things forward into a relationship back then and John didn't seem inclined to. And there was always the complication of Lestrade - that shaky grudging friendship had been the rock he had clung to through the most difficult episodes of his adult life - and if he ever allowed himself to think about attraction - which was rarely - Lestrade was the first and only name that had ever come to mind. Until John. Sherlock had returned from his two year exile naively believing John would have waited for him forever, only to find his friend had moved on in a major way.

Greg was still there though - always there for him - and that gripping hug he gave him in the car park, even as he called him a bastard, told him he still would be. He gave Greg his best blank look and the DI wondered if he had genuinely missed John's devotion to him in all that time or if the detective was being deliberately stupid to spare his feelings. He had the nagging suspicion he was, and always would be, second best.

"John isn't gay; we established that a long time ago." Sherlock said flatly, pushing Greg away and walking into the living room where he dropped untidily onto the sofa. He could hear the shower running and the bedroom door was still firmly closed which meant there was no one to distract them from this difficult conversation. He wanted Greg to leave it alone - _needed_ him to - but he followed and hovered uncertainly by the sofa looking down at him.

"Sherlock, I need to know-"

"No you don't. It doesn't make any difference to _this_," he said gesturing between them and trying not to see the hurt in his boyfriend's eyes. He'd never actually denied having 'feelings' for his blogger, he just preferred to keep them firmly locked away in a drawer marked 'inconvenient and detrimental to The Work'. If he didn't acknowledge them they weren't an issue. Unfortunately John had done a good job of humanizing him somewhat, which led to him occasionally finding himself in tune with another's feelings. In this case, the two men he cared for most in the world. He didn't like it one bit.

"Maybe it makes a difference to me," Greg said sharply. "I need some air. See you later."

The door closed softly behind him.


	5. A Brotherly Intervention

Monday mornings didn't agree with Greg Lestrade even in normal circumstances, but pushing through the door of his office with his cup of take-away coffee – extra strong with three sugars, to combat his sleepless night – he was less than thrilled to find his chair occupied by none other than Mycroft Holmes. The dapper man sat neatly in his chair leaning on his ever present umbrella with one hand, the other holding a document that he'd presumably plucked from the pile on Lestrade's desk. Greg wasn't in the mood for the elder Holmes brother. He and Sherlock would have to inform him of the advancement in their relationship at some point – if indeed there was to be any further advancement given Sherlock's mobile silence since Greg had walked out the previous morning – but today was not that day.

"Ah, Detective Inspector. You were expected at eight-thirty sharp. Had I known you would be," he checked his watch, "more than forty-five minutes late I would not have waited." He gave a thin smile that conveyed no pleasure at seeing the DI.

"I wasn't aware we had an appointment Mycroft." He used the other's forename deliberately trying to needle him, but the thin man gave no indication he cared one way or another. He tapped a slim finger on the document that he had set down on the desk.

"I have an interest in a case you are investigating. I need to ensure that your clumsy attempts to bring a killer to justice don't compromise a certain individual under our protection. However, your subordinate appears to be trying to catch your attention. May I suggest you attend to the young lady's enquiry, and then we can conclude our conversation?"

Greg caught sight of Donovan hovering outside his office door gesturing to him to come outside and speak with her. Reluctantly he exited his office once more closing the door behind him.

"He's the freak's brother isn't he?" she asked without preamble. "Seems to think he's _someone_ important, swanning in here and plonking himself in your office. He said you wouldn't mind, and he had information about a case, but he wouldn't talk to me."

"If he knows anything important I'm sure he'll tell me, but he's just as likely to tell me a load of bollocks. Where are we up to with the Eye case? You arrested the boss as Sherlock suggested?"

"Yes, but the freak got it wrong!" she said with some relish. "The boss was having an affair with his _wife_! Apparently Austin Finch, the boss, left his wife Sharon, six months ago after a very public affair with his PA Imogen Coulter, our victim. They were engaged, pending the finalization of the divorce – huge rock of an engagement ring that seems to be missing from the body – but apparently the husband and wife had been seeing each other again."

"Ok, who knew about the nut allergy?" He asked, ignoring the 'freak' tag yet again. It burned, both because Sherlock was his lover and because he was mad at him, but he had the feeling Donovan had started using it again with the express purpose of annoying him today.

"Common knowledge in the workplace. Her allergy was so severe there was a health and safety briefing about it. They even reviewed all their catering suppliers to ensure there would be no unfortunate accidents. The caterers at this event were regular contractors who were extremely vigilant in their food preparation and presentation to ensure no nut products came into contact with any of the food they served. They've had no new staff in the last six months. We're still waiting for the pathology report but we expect cause of death to be directly related to the allergic reaction."

"Ok, if Holmes gives me anything useful I'll let you know. In the meantime, find that ring and find me some suspects! Let me know when the autopsy report is in."

He swept back into his office slamming the door behind him. Mycroft had worked his way through the stack of documents on his desk, neatly transferring them from his 'attention' pile to his own 'read' pile. He didn't even bother to look up from the most recent selection, merely pursing his lips at Lestrade's noisy re-entry to the room.

"Those are supposed to be confidential you know? Not that I suppose anything is hidden from your eyes. You probably know the colour of my sodding toilet roll. So which is it?" he demanded, "The husband or the wife?"

"Austin Finch is a highly respected businessman in certain fields of interest for the British Government. We have been keeping a close eye on him. Unfortunately some of his- outside interests- have convinced people in positions of influence that he is not to be trusted. If he were to somehow be taken out of the game, we would consider it no great loss."

"And you consider an arrest for the murder of his fiancée to be adequate to 'take him out of the game'? I assume there will be sufficient evidence to secure a conviction, leaving your person of special interest free to carry on with their duties?"

"You would have everything required." The auburn haired man looked severe. "We have invested too much in Sharon Finch to let her go without a fight. I am sorry, Detective Inspector."

"Did she do it?"

"I don't believe so, but that is not my concern. I am only concerned with protecting our asset. I'm sure you understand, Detective Inspector?"

He didn't understand, and much less cared, but appearing to acquiesce to Mycroft Holmes' demands was the quickest way of ejecting him from his office. He would continue to conduct his own investigation, and – he conceded glumly – he would eventually come to the same conclusion Holmes had given him due to lack of evidence that could be made to stick. It was galling and incredibly frustrating and often made his job feel insignificant. _Bastard!_

"We'll do what needs to be done." He sighed bitterly.

"Excellent!"

Holmes was silent for all of three minutes but showed no signs of leaving his office; instead he twirled the umbrella around on its point pensively. Lestrade stood a foot from his desk in all of that time, reluctant to insist the government official vacate his seat and get the fuck out of his workplace. Eventually the skinny auburn-haired man stilled and looked directly at him.

"I am informed, Detective Inspector, that my younger brother has chosen you as some sort of 'partner' in an _emotional_ sense. Sherlock is a naïve and complex man, Lestrade, and I would not look kindly upon the person who takes advantage and ultimately lets him fall once more. Be assured, if you continue your personal association with my brother and it ends badly you will find your position here untenable. Reasons to terminate your employment can be fabricated."

Lestrade gave a bark of humorless laughter and leaned both hands on his desk to stare challengingly into the frosty blue eyes across from him.

"Don't make childish threats Mycroft. If I don't play nice you can't take your bat and ball home in a sulk and expect me to be a better behaved man as a result. If I am in a relationship of any kind with your brother that is _our_ business, troubles and all, and we'll sort them out like grown-ups. He doesn't need his big brother threatening to beat me up in the school yard."

"Indeed," said a deep baritone behind them. "Your concern is touching, brother dear, but not welcome."

The two men at the desk looked at the origin of the voice that was standing in the open door with fists clenched by his sides. A few pairs of curious eyes looked towards the office but there was no frenetic buzz of gossip that would suggest their conversation had been overheard. Lestrade was relieved; going public about his gay relationship with a man half the office despised - a relationship that was possibly already over - wasn't on his to-do list. He couldn't look at Sherlock so glared at the brother instead, who took the hint and rose gracefully from Lestrade's seat adjusting his suit so it fell in its usual immaculate lines without a visible crease in the fabric. The DI wished he knew that Holmes secret; it was probably due to horrifically expensive tailoring they both favored that was way beyond his salary anyway.

"Well, this has been pleasant as always."

"You can't help yourself Mycroft. The moment I find anything that makes me happy, you won't stop worrying at it until it's in shreds at my feet. Not this time, brother."

"You wound me. I have no wish to interfere; I am simply expressing my brotherly concern. Your last attempt at a relationship was almost the end of you. I would _not_ see that happen again. Good day to you both."

He stalked unhurriedly from the office, umbrella swinging lazily, ignoring the curious looks as he passed. Sherlock pushed the office door closed and leaned against it unsure how to begin. Greg waited nervously for the break-up speech, sipping at his lukewarm coffee. He supposed if Sherlock was dumping him then at least his job was safe. The silence became oppressive and Greg had to break it.

"Do you want to sit?" He gestured at a chair in the corner. "Pull that one up."

"I'll stand." The detective said, not moving from the door. The smooth wood under the palm of his hand was a solid, support at his back. He dipped his other hand into his coat pocket and withdrew his mobile phone, fiddling with it a moment and holding it up to display a text conversation. He didn't need to read it again; it was memorized word for word. "You had a chat with Mary last night."

Greg closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Mary had promised their conversation would go no further but it seemed she couldn't prevent the devious bastard from nicking her mobile. Sherlock's carefully arranged features gave no clue as to how he felt about the conversation. He wanted to hear it from Greg's own lips if this was to be the end. He kept his tone steady by force of will when he asked "Did you mean it?"

"Which bit?"

"All of it? _Any_ of it?"

Greg nodded but wouldn't meet his eyes.

"If you want someone else- If in your heart you want John- then I'm not prepared to be second choice. I did that for years with my wife Sherlock. I'd rather have nothing at all than suffer another relationship where I wasn't my lover's only one. I deserve better than that."

"Mary said so. You said some dreadful things to her about her marriage."

"Nothing she hasn't already said to me at other times. She loves John and John loves her. He made himself move on and put her first. She accepts second best sometimes because before that she had no one. I won't."

"You said you loved me. _Loved_. Past tense. We've been together less than a week and already it's over for you."

"What?" Greg looked incredulous. "Of course it's not fucking over for me. I think I love you, you stupid idiot, but I don't know if this can ever work in the way I want it to."

"What do you want?"

"You to be all mine without past lovers coming between us the minute things get tricky. I don't want to risk getting hurt every time John throws a jealous strop because he catches us kissing. He was happy enough when he thought it was a bit of a joke and he didn't know the feelings were mutual. I assume they _are_ reciprocated? Please tell me if I'm deluding myself so I can preserve at least a small shred of dignity!"

Sherlock's answer was to cross the small office and drop to his knees at Greg's feet, sliding his arms behind the surprised DI's back in an awkward bear hug. His curly head buried into the crook of his neck, hiding his face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice muffled in Greg's shoulder. "The first time you tell someone you love them should be special and I ruined it."

Greg gave a shaky laugh and cast a worried glance at the office window, but no one seemed to have noticed what was going on inside, thank goodness.

"It's ok love, another bump in the road. I knew it wasn't going to be stress-free being with you, but it's important to me that we're together for the right reasons. I don't want a fuck-buddy Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded and kissed his neck just above the buttoned up collar. "I don't really know what love is supposed to be like, but I want to share more than sex with you. If you'll let me?"

"Agreed, but can you please get off my floor now? Someone's going to walk in at any minute and get the _right_ idea, but I'm not ready for that yet, ok?"


	6. Because Friends Need to Know

**A/N: This is a little short chapter that I was going to cut, but it's quite sweet so have left it in**

Sherlock leaned over the body of Imogen Coulter peering closely at the tiny puncture mark almost concealed in her hairline that Molly Hooper had drawn his attention to.

"I almost missed it," she admitted, "probably would have done had it not been for the swelling at the site. I thought initially she'd taken a bump to the head, but when I looked properly there was an injection that had reacted. Odd place for anyone to inject anything."

"So you're thinking some kind if drug to subdue her?" Greg asked.

Molly smiled at the policeman. She hadn't seen him for a couple of weeks and he looked different; there was something about him she couldn't quite put her finger on. He was always pleasant and affable but today he looked relaxed. So did Sherlock for that matter. There hadn't been any sniping between them in the whole twenty minutes they'd been reviewing the body, which was almost unheard of. Not a single snarky comment or thinly veiled barb. It was unnerving! She shook her head and turned her attention to answering Greg's question.

"She was injected with a solution that contained peanut oil triggering a massive allergic reaction. It was probably done while she was already suffering a reaction from the chocolate she'd consumed. Normally she would have used her adrenaline pen but that was missing. This was just to make sure she died."

"That's sick!"

"As opposed to all the perfectly _lovely_ murders we usually deal with?" Joked Sherlock. He grinned at Greg who chuckled. He bent over the body to look at the wound, his hand brushing against Sherlock's in the process, who gave his fingers a quick squeeze that Molly thought she must have surely imagined it was so brief.

"Ok, what's going on?" She demanded, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at the pair who were now grinning like idiots at one another. "There's nothing remotely funny in my report. This poor girl died a horrible death and you two are giggling over it like boys on a school trip!"

"Oh Molly, stop looking so stern! We're sorry, ok? We are taking your report seriously. It's just- Well we wanted to make you aware of something as we count you amongst our closest friends, and you appear to be the only one we haven't told."

"Told what?" She asked curiously staring at Greg who had turned more beetroot as he'd raced towards the end of his sentence. She glanced at Sherlock who was also looking rather pink. Sherlock was _blushing_? He was also wearing the goofiest look on his face that she'd ever seen. It was bizarre!

"What Greg is trying to tell you in a ridiculously complicated manner, is that he and I have embarked on a sexual relationship. Although we aren't making it public yet because I am convinced, even if this idiot isn't, that it won't last."

"Oh!"

"Subtle, Sherlock!"

"I'm, um, happy for you?" She sat down heavily; fortunate there was actually a stool behind her.

The two men watched her face anxiously for her true reaction. Greg laced his fingers loosely through his boyfriend's in a show of togetherness. He was painfully aware that Molly had carried a torch for Sherlock for as long as she'd known him, and that she'd been his trusted confidant at the most pivotal point in his life so far. This would be a shock, and she wouldn't necessarily take the news well.

"I'm sorry, um- how long-?" She asked.

How long had she been making a fool of herself mooning after an apparently gay man who was involved with another of her close friends who she hadn't known was gay either? How humiliating would it be to find out it had been years? She blinked away moisture from her eyes that the couple in front of her pretended not to notice.

"Only a week Molly. We only recently realized there was something between us, and it took some time to decide to do something about it," Sherlock said kindly, deducing the subtext of her question as always.

"Oh. I'm happy for you, really. It's just-"

"We know," Greg gave her a one-armed hug and pecked her on the cheek.

Sherlock took both her hands in his and smiled at her gently.

"When it all goes horribly wrong I hope I can count on you to pick up my broken pieces and tell this jerk to find a different shoulder to cry on?"

"Idiots," she giggled. "If either of you hurts the other I'll be mad!"


	7. The Painful Past

**a/n: warning for sex**

"Are you still convinced Austin Finch killed Imogen?"

Greg's head was a warm weight in Sherlock's lap and the DI practically purred as the detective's dexterous fingers massaged tiny circles across his scalp. Sherlock imagined it was rather like the soothing motion of stroking a cat, but with less shedding hair and pin prick claws. Greg looked ten years younger when he totally relaxed like this and it made Sherlock's stomach quiver when his lover reached up and plucked the cigarette from his lips and took a long drag, exhaling a thin controlled stream of delicious smoke into the flat.

"John would go mad if he knew we were smoking indoors."

"The grumpy sod would go mad if he knew we were smoking at all. He hates that I encourage your bad habits, and I love that he hates it. Is that bad of me?"

Sherlock puffed a short breath of annoyance and took back the cigarette wondering when he'd come to accept, _enjoy_ even, sharing a single smoke between them instead of taking one each from the pack. It had become an odd sort of shared intimacy they could indulge in when other things, like touching or kissing weren't possible. If anyone had noticed, they hadn't passed comment.

"You haven't answered my question."

"Hmm? Oh, Finch. Yes undoubtedly, I just don't know why. If he wanted to be free of her he could have just broken off the engagement; he didn't need to kill her. What did Mycroft say?"

"Only that we would be able to find enough evidence to convict him without much bother. If he did it, then that shouldn't really trouble me as much as it does, should it?"

Sherlock pondered his brother's motives, which were rarely clear cut. He plainly wanted to ensure no blame could be attached to the wife, which meant that _she_ was more important to the British Government than Finch himself, and Sherlock found that much more fascinating than the murder. He stubbed out the butt in the ashtray by his side and absently unbuttoned Greg's shirt sliding his hand beneath the fabric to stroke his tanned skin and tease one nipple. Greg sighed and wriggled under his hand, a sly smile twitching his lips. Suddenly he flipped onto his side, pressing his face into his lover's lower belly, startling Sherlock out of his reverie. He pressed a close-mouthed kiss to the front of his trousers, keeping his eyes closed but knowing that Sherlock was watching him intently, wondering what he would do next. He decided to stick with his current actions until he felt his lover swell to his satisfaction which didn't take long.

"I thought we were discussing the case…" Sherlock said a little distractedly as Greg unfastened his trousers giving himself access to the smooth taut skin beneath.

"Feel free," he chuckled between kisses, "I'm listening. Multi-tasking with my mouth full. Who knows… the answer might come at the same time you do."

Sherlock abandoned any attempt to think about the case within a couple of minutes, instead giving himself over to the amazing things Greg was doing to him. He shoved his fingers into his short silver hair, guiding him to exactly where he wanted him, and Greg allowed himself to be directed, because it was the surest way to hear his boyfriend moaning obscenely without offering up any observations or deductions. Before long Sherlock lost all pretense of control and came hard in Greg's mouth. He sagged bonelessly against the back of Greg's sofa, one hand resting on the other man's ribcage, the other resting against his own heaving chest above his beating heart.

"Fuck!"

"Eloquent, Mr. Holmes." Greg said, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt.

"Do you want me to take care of you?" Sherlock's hand travelled south over his chest and stomach to his straining erection.

"Always, but give me a minute Lock? This old git could do with the comfort of a bed."

"Lock?"

The shortening of his name brought uncomfortable memories with it; discomfort that must be written plainly on his face because Greg shifted himself upright and put a discreet distance between them.

"If you don't like it, I won't use it," Greg frowned. "Much like you, your name is a mouthful. I thought the shortening was sexy, and something personal between us."

"I'm sorry. I like it- I just associate it with someone else from a long time ago."

"Someone significant?"

He hummed non-commitally, not sure how much he could reveal without dredging up haunting memories that would torment him for months to come. He didn't want to think about a poetically-doomed, handsome bad-boy in the same breath as this solid, dependable, loving man. He thought he loved them both, but his feelings for each were polar opposites.

"Sherlock?" Greg questioned softly, reaching out to cup the detective's face and soothing his thumbs over the other's cheeks. "You don't have to tell me if you don't feel able. Mycroft mentioned a previous relationship today… It sounded like it didn't end well."

"You could say that. It wasn't much of a relationship though."

Sherlock stared blankly at the flickering TV which was turned down low. His long fingers drummed erratically on the arm of the sofa while he tried to organize his thoughts and determine how to explain about Robert. Robert, the man he locked away in his mind palace in a room labelled 'abandon hope all ye who enter here'. Robert, the beautiful, screwed up junkie who had added Sherlock to his list of addictions and first made him aware that there was a means to escape the torment of everyday life for a price.

"When I was a first year student I shared a flat with two other boys. They were in their final year, so a couple of years older. I hardly saw Max; he was practically living with his girlfriend, but Robert was always around. I don't even know what he was studying."

"Robert was your boyfriend?"

"Nothing so conventional. I was pretty naive and hadn't really thought about love and sex or sexuality. I wasn't particularly interested in any of it. I was intrigued by this mysterious, attractive man though, and he seemed fascinated by me."

"He's not the only one," teased Greg tenderly, reaching out to take Sherlock's hand. The detective stared at their entwined fingers and fell silent. Greg shifted closer so he could lean against the other man. "You can tell me some other time if you want to leave it there?"

"No, now I've started- Robert spent most of the six months I knew him pursuing the next high, most of it chemical, all of it dangerous. I found his constantly changing personality intoxicating but it was merely the result of drug addiction. I didn't really understand that at the time. When he was high he was this amazing bundle of energy, entertaining and beautiful, and I was besotted. When he wasn't he cried a lot and I found myself comforting him more and more."

"Were you lovers?" Sherlock turned red and tried to move away from his boyfriend but Greg stayed with him, maintaining his steady presence. "It's ok, Sherlock."

"We shared a bed when he was distressed. He liked the physical contact. Sometimes I would become aroused and he enjoyed touching me, but I was never permitted to touch him and we never had sex. He cried a great deal towards the end and told me he loved me often. I wasn't allowed to say it back."

Silent tears were streaming down his cheeks but he wasn't aware until Greg gently wiped them away. Almost twenty years of falling in and out of addiction and rehab had convinced him it was dependency not true love, but it was the closest he'd come to genuine connection with another human being. First love at an impressionable age always left its mark, but this had left hideous scars that Greg was at a loss to know how to begin healing. Mycroft's over-protective stance made a bitter kind of sense. He pulled Sherlock into his arms so the younger man's head lay heavily on his shoulder. He thought he knew, but he had to ask.

"How did it end?"

"He died. Overdose. Deliberate."

Greg nodded and hugged him tightly, rubbing soothing circles over his narrow back. He hesitantly pressed his lips to the curls on the crown of Sherlock's head and suddenly his lover twisted in his arms, mouth surging up to meet his in a bruising desperate kiss. Greg could do nothing but respond in kind, taking all his sorrow and turning it into passion. Their kisses turned more frantic and before long Sherlock was tugging him off the sofa and towards the bedroom. He paused in the doorway, pushing Greg roughly against the wooden frame, biting and sucking at his neck in the spot he knew would have the other man trembling. Greg was trying to force their lower bodies as close as possible while both still clothed and whimpering when it wasn't enough.

"Sherlock-?" He begged.

"Yes!" He growled, roughly yanking at Greg's jeans and forcing them down over his hips. He slicked his palm with saliva as best he could and held Greg's hot straining flesh in a grip that would be uncomfortable in any other circumstance but was perfect in that instant. Greg groaned and thrust into his fist, driven by the hard sucking and biting up and down his neck and Sherlock's hot breath panting in his ear. It was over quickly and as Greg spilled hot and wet over his lover, Sherlock gasped in his ear "I love you, Greg."


	8. Moving On

Sherlock left Greg's flat in the early hours, long before the DI would wake. He couldn't explain the anger that seethed in him following his revelations the previous evening. Sharing confidences was part of a relationship, he remembered John telling him once, but it was funny he had never considered telling John about Robert. John was the man he thought he'd been prepared to die for when he jumped. He wouldn't die that day, but all through those two long dangerous years he had come close a dozen times and each time he'd been certain he was doing it for John. Had he even thought about Greg in all that time? Yes, of course he had. Greg had saved him countless times and never fully left him, but he had thought he was in love with John. Urgh, sentiment.

He walked for an hour before he recognized where he was headed. The large cemetery gates were locked against vandals and drunks but there was always another way in by a broken fence panel. Once inside it took him ten minutes to locate the black polished headstone.

_Robert Collins Departed this earth 4th April 1995 aged 21 Beloved son_

There was a bunch of faded artificial flowers lying against the base that had probably been placed there at Christmas time judging by the lone piece of plastic holly amongst the more hopeful fake roses. They reminded him of Robert - beautiful but ultimately a lie.

He no longer felt guilty over Robert's death. Hours of tedious therapy in various recovery establishments over the years had convinced him that Robert was a lost cause and he had been too young to help him. Mycroft had hardened his heart against any kind of emotional attachment since and kept him focused on first his studies, then his Work. When he stumbled and fell, Mycroft picked him up, packed him off for a therapy top up and set him on the right path once more. He both despised and loved his brother for it.

He rested his hands on the smooth cold stone watching as occasional raindrops darkened the granite like tears he'd never cried. One therapist had insisted Robert was an abuser and had spent weeks trying to get him to accept he was a victim but he still couldn't, even after all these years. Robert had told him he loved him in his farewell note, and that was what stayed with him.

The last time he'd been in the cemetery was shortly before he met Greg for the first time. He'd stood in front of the grave for twenty minutes fiddling with the packet in his pocket waiting for a reason not to use it, then he'd walked out of the graveyard to a grotty house ten minutes away and over the next two days he'd forced it into his veins. At some point, while still high, he'd stumbled into Greg's crime scene and made a nuisance of himself until he'd been arrested. Since then he'd found no reason to come here. Greg was wrong to think he had ever been second best. He had been a constant caring presence in his life, often abused and under-appreciated, but always needed and... Loved? Sometimes the most observant of us are blind to the things that make us vulnerable.

His mobile rang in his pocket, playing a familiar 80s tune unlike the regular ringtone reserved for most callers. He smiled - maybe there was a place for sentiment after all.

"Greg?"

"I was worried when you weren't here-"

"I'm ok. Good, in fact. See you at the Yard later?"

"Ok, see you soon. Take care?"

Greg still sounded worried, but for once it didn't irritate him to realise someone was watching out for him. He stood in front of the headstone again; almost certain this would be his last visit. One long finger traced the letters of the boy's name then continued, spreading the moisture from the sparse raindrops across the glossy stone, into more words that would disappear as they dried. _I loved you._

Sherlock was surprised to find John in Greg's office when he got to the Yard. The compact ex-soldier nursed a mug of coffee and chatted easily with the DI. He looked better rested than he had since their return from Durham, a fact Sherlock commented on.

"Two full nights of unbroken sleep works wonders! Mary tells me it won't last, but right now I feel great and she feels happier. She asked me to apologize on her behalf for being so abusive on Sunday morning."

Sherlock smiled. "It's ok; I know she didn't mean it."

"Yeah, anytime you two want a night off just give us a shout. We'd love to babysit."

"What? Not sure about that Greg!" Sherlock looked horrified. "What do we know about babies?"

"Relax; I'm only suggesting watching her for a couple of hours, not adopting her! Make a dinner reservation for Saturday night John. We'll sit, ok?"

"You're on! I think I owe the two of you an apology too; I didn't mean to make things awkward. Mary had a real go at me over it and told me to get over myself. She made me feel pretty dreadful about it actually. I guess I hadn't thought about it from her perspective. Anyway we're delighted you two are giving it a go."

"Thanks. We're keeping it quiet for a while though. Not that we're ashamed or embarrassed, we just want to make sure we work as a couple without being constantly under scrutiny. It could make things awkward here at work too, and Sherlock would dump me in a heartbeat if it came down to a choice between me and a nice juicy murder. Molly knows, and Mycroft, but no one else for now."

Sherlock wasn't sure what it would take to give him the confidence that he wouldn't mess things up, but he was feeling surer of his ground and more comfortable with the idea of a relationship. He resolved to practice idle cuddling with Greg, and there was plenty more sex to explore. The thing he'd tried last night, for example, that had him gripping the sheets so hard in an effort not to come his hand had cramped. That had brought him back from the edge for sure, but he couldn't wait for Greg to try it again!

"Sherlock, are you listening?"

"Oh! Um-?"

"I was telling you they found the adrenaline pen on the floor of a different cabin. There's nothing to prove it didn't simply fall out of her bag earlier in the evening unfortunately."

"Oh. Right. Finch still did it. He discovered his wife was having an affair with his fiancée and they were working together to bring down his business. Sharon Finch gave the necklace to Imogen but hadn't told her it was formerly a gift from her husband. Imogen told _him_ it was from an ex-lover. The pendant is unique, his own design, so he would recognize it and realize his wife and lover knew one another. I don't know if Imogen was recruited by Mycroft or by Sharon herself, but she was certainly working for them. He decided he needed to rid himself of her without making it obvious he knew what she was. The nut allergy gave him the perfect means to stage an accident. Um- that's it I think. He'll probably have kept the ring and necklace. Mycroft will ensure Sharon has a story that supports the affair but makes no mention of the work. There'll be enough supporting evidence to convict."

"Bloody hell, I'll get the team on it!"

"Do that," Sherlock grinned and bent to give him a brief kiss on the mouth. "If there's nothing you need me for I have some things to do for our date tonight."

"We have a date?"

"I'll text you the details. See you later."


	9. Second Date

**A/N: Being a little cheeky here, but just wondering if anyone reading along would be willing to give some feedback in the form of a review? There seem to be quite a few followers, but I'm always interested to know what you like/don't like so I can develop my writing :-) Two more chapters after this one I think.**

Sherlock rang up to Greg's flat and waited impatiently shifting from foot to foot for him to join him on the street. When he did he wrapped his arms around his waist and pressed their lips together in a lingering kiss breathing in the spicy scent of his aftershave and reveling in holding all that man close.

"Hmm, if you continue kissing me like that I may just drag you straight upstairs. I like this affectionate you." Greg grinned. "Where are we going anyway?"

"It's a surprise, and I really hope you're going to enjoy it. You look gorgeous by the way."

Greg laughed out loud at the unaccustomed compliment falling from Sherlock's lips.

"Who's been getting you to practice being nice?"

"Molly," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "Actually she suggested the venue for our evening tonight, so if you hate it, it's her fault. I've never dated so I have no idea what it involves."

"_Never_? Not even with...?"

"Nope. It wasn't something that ever had a place in my life."

"Well it's generally just two people who enjoy each other's company doing stuff together. There's often kissing involved. And I guess if you get on really well it can end in hot sex if both parties are up for it."

"We don't seem to have much trouble in that department."

Sherlock let him go reluctantly before the temptation to move directly to the hot sex part of the evening grew too great. For all he'd known Greg for years he'd realized he didn't know a great deal _about_ him, and Molly said dating was about getting to know the person so you had something to talk about when you weren't having sex. They had spent the afternoon trying to figure out something Greg would like to do that Sherlock would find bearable too. Molly had finally given him a five minute lecture on 'compromise being the key to a successful relationship' and had insisted he take her two tickets to a club that played live music because she 'wasn't lucky enough to have a hot guy desperate to spend time with her and he better not screw it up!' Molly Hooper could be shockingly bossy at times.

Sherlock hailed a cab without any trouble and ten minutes later they pulled up outside a battered silver door sandwiched between a bank and a designer clothes shop. A heavily muscled bouncer in black dress trousers and a tight black t-shirt stood guard at the entrance, alert but chatting to a blue-haired girl sitting in the ticket booth. The black painted sign read 'What Lies Beneath'. Greg raised a questioning eyebrow and Sherlock grinned, handing over the tickets and leading the way down the stairs into the noisy gloom.

Greg was impressed by the venue in all its shabbiness. Every available scrap of wall was plastered with band posters from every genre of music he could imagine, and some that even he had never heard of in spite of his extensive record collection. The room was much larger than he had expected from the understated entrance on the street, and even boasted a reasonable sized stage at one end where a band were running through some last minute sound checks before their performance, though they had to compete with the music blaring from the DJ's sound system for the moment.

"Wow, how did I not know about this place? The only things to make it perfect would be a carpet so sticky it rips your shoes off as you walk and a thick fog of smoke."

"Health and safety did for the smoke. If you need a cigarette there's a yard out back apparently."

They bought drinks - a couple each so they didn't have to battle their way back to the bar too soon - then took up a spot near the edge of the crowd in front of the stage. Sherlock found himself watching Greg who was eagerly watching _everything_ that was going on around him, eyes flicking from the stage, to the dance floor and roaming over the walls, with his huge beaming smile.

"I love it, and that's before the band!"

He leaned in and pecked him on the cheek, startling Sherlock so much he almost spilled his beer. He looked around, worried they might have attracted negative attention, but no one seemed to be remotely interested in them since the band were taking to the stage. They played for an hour and were actually very good, although their style of music wasn't much to his taste. Greg nodded along though and even sang a couple of songs that he explained - yelling in Sherlock's ear - were covers of one of his favorite bands. When they finished the crowd went wild, applauding and cheering like they were headlining Wembley Stadium not a little rock club in the depths of London.

They didn't stay long after the band finished being more inclined to eat than dance. A few hundred yards along the road they found the Indian restaurant Molly had also recommended and tumbled inside, chatting and laughing. Sherlock was surprising himself at how easy and natural it felt being with Greg outside a work context, though obviously the four pints of beer he'd consumed had a relaxing effect. He wasn't drunk but he certainly felt mellow and happy. They were the only customers as it was still early. They ordered lamb madras for Greg, chicken biryani for him and tucked into the pile of poppadums and pickles, crunching noisily while they waited for their meals.

"This is quite a good second date."

"Yes, but we do this all the time with other people like John. You drink beer with him and I go to food places with him. And sometimes I even do it with Molly!" Sherlock giggled.

Greg snorted a laugh. "You have never done _it_ with Molly!"

"_Food_ Greg, I have done food with Molly, don't be childish." He scolded but he was laughing.

"So what's your point? What makes it a date?"

"Exactly!"

"We could hold hands like we did in Durham?" Greg gripped Sherlock's wrist in a poor imitation of the detective's pulse-taking technique. "But don't get me beaten up this time. Does this feel like a date now?"

"Feels a bit dumb. And the waiters think we're drunk. Perhaps we should behave or we'll get evicted before we eat and I'm starving!"

Later in the taxi back to Baker Street Greg slid his arm around Sherlock so they could kiss. He stroked the tip of his tongue teasingly over his lover's lower lip tasting garlic, chilli and Sherlock, and it was delicious. Sherlock's lips parted, allowing him inside to caress the edges of his teeth and the smooth underside of his top lip, and then his fingers were sliding up Greg's back trying to pull him closer. A sharp rap on the partition from the driver brought them abruptly back to reality. "None of that!" He griped, glaring at them in his rear view mirror.

Greg giggled "I guess this makes it a date."


	10. Back to Baker Street Boys

**a/n: warning for sex - fairly briefly described to be honest but if you don't like that kind of thing, skip this chapter and replace with 'they had sex' lol**

They stumbled through the door into the shadowy hall at Baker Street, chuckling and kissing, clashing it closed behind them so Greg could pin Sherlock against it and kiss him roughly. Sherlock's hands gripped Greg's hips holding on like a desperate man battling for dominance with teeth, lips and tongue.

"God, I have to get you upstairs now and out of these clothes Holmes."

"You're the one keeping me here," grinned Sherlock, thrusting his hand down the back of Greg's jeans to caress the spot just below his waistband that seemed to drive him crazy. "What is it about just there...?"

"I don't know, no one else ever found it," he groaned against the other man's lips, grabbing his unoccupied hand and pressing it to the front of his jeans over his burgeoning erection.

"Eager. I want to kiss you on that spot while I-"

"Far be it from me to get in the way of true love Sherlock dear, but do you think you and Mr. Lestrade could perhaps take it upstairs? I can't empty my bins."

"Mrs. Hudson!" Yelped Greg in horror, leaping away from Sherlock, relieved they hadn't got as far as unzipping.

"Not a problem for me dear, other than my bins. So glad to see Sherlock has found someone. You know, _after_ _John_."

"Sherlock and John weren't-"

"Don't bother, she never listens. Goodnight Mrs. Hudson, tea would be lovely tomorrow, ten-ish if you'd be so kind? _Two_ cups and biscuits." He pecked her on the cheek as he passed, dragging Greg after him.

"Well that was embarrassing."

"Five minutes later and it could have been so much worse. Not sure her heart could stand it if she'd witnessed me on my knees sucking you off."

"Now that's a very enticing thought. The blow job, that is, not Mrs. Hudson watching!"

Sherlock allowed Greg to lead him to the bedroom, shucking clothes as they went. By the time they fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs they were both naked and half hard. Sherlock flipped Greg onto his stomach kissing down the broad planes of his shoulders and back, his curls tickling in the briefest of caresses as he descended towards the muscular curve of his buttocks.

"You are beautiful, you know?"

Every touch of his lips and graze of his teeth tingled on Greg's bare skin making him shiver, and suddenly Sherlock's mouth was over that sensitive spot near the base of his spine causing a spike of desire, that amazed and delighted his partner. Sherlock worked his tongue over it, teasing the sensations out and gradually dipping lower to the cleft of his arse.

"Oh god," moaned Greg, "If you go any lower I _will_ come and that'll be it."

"For you maybe," smirked Sherlock, reaching for the packet of lube he'd stuffed under the pillow and tearing it open with his teeth. He slicked up his fingers and resumed kissing the sensitive nerves on his back, sliding his fingers between Greg's legs to stroke along his perineum to his balls and up between his buttocks, ghosting over the tight puckered ring of muscle. "Good?" he asked, and Greg pushed himself to his knees in response, upper body still prone on the bed. He coated his left hand with a little more lube and curled his fingers around Greg's cock, alternating the firm slide of his left fist, with the light stroke of his right fingers, agonizingly slowly.

"You really are a fucking tease, Holmes. A man of my age can't take this treatment for long."

"Shut up about your age you idiot, you're fitter than a man ten years younger and you can last as long, assuming I'll let you."

Sherlock stilled the hand on Greg's cock and pressed the tip of one finger against his entrance eliciting a muttered curse from his lover that begged for more, rather than less. Obligingly he eased his finger in slowly, allowing Greg to adjust to the intrusion. When he felt the muscle relax slightly he slid his finger out gradually and back in, working him into a cautious languid rhythm. Greg began to shift his hips, pushing back onto the single finger, sliding forward through his unyielding grip. Sherlock added a second finger, interrupting the fluent motion Greg had established for a moment, but he soon found his pace again becoming more sure as the stretch became more comfortable.

His own lust grew at the erotic sight of both his hands engaged in pleasuring his boyfriend. Greg's face was turned towards him, eyes dark with desire and his cheek pressed into the mattress, concentrating on every sensation and moaning encouragingly. His left hand was growing slick as Greg thrust into his palm, but the third finger was almost his undoing, and he had to loosen his grip to prevent Greg coming. The sudden loss of sensation was enough to bring him back from the precipice, dragging in shuddering breaths to keep control.

"Do you want me inside you?" Sherlock was shocked at how shaky his voice was. This was something new, the next step, and he was ready for it. He just hoped to god Greg was too.

"God yes!" Greg breathed, adjusting his position to brace himself on his forearms, forehead pressed to the mattress. "Go slow."

Sherlock knelt between Greg's legs and slicked himself with the last of the lube, positioning himself carefully and pushing in gently until he breached his lover. Greg panted beneath him, taking deep breaths to adjust to the incredible new sensation. It burned in spite of the preparation and was uncomfortable but in a bloody good way. He nodded when Sherlock asked "more?" and forced himself to relax as his lover slid in further.

"Is it good?"

"Yes," he gasped. "For you?"

"Tight. And hot. And I'm not going to last long, I guarantee it."

"Ok, move."

Sherlock did, easing in more and then out painfully slowly at first until Greg whispered "Quicker". He braced himself on the other man's hips and gave a couple of experimental thrusts that had him whimpering beneath him. Greg's hand found its way to his own cock, and he allowed Sherlock's thrusts to drive him into his fist as they grew in confidence and desire, and suddenly Sherlock's fingers were biting into his hips hard enough to bruise and he was yelping as he came hard into Greg's arse. The sounds Sherlock made were enough to tip Greg over the edge and he pulsed over his fingers in hot white bursts.

They collapsed onto the sticky damp sheets, laughing softly at the new experience. Sherlock curled around him, pulling him back against his chest and ignoring the mess for the moment. He kissed Greg's neck, and shoulder, soothing his hand over his still trembling body.

"Oh god, that was-"

"Yes, it fucking well _was_- I think that lives up to the hot sex part of the date."

"Thank you."

They fell silent, each listening to the other breathe, reluctant to move. They smelled of sweat, sex and lube and Greg knew he was going to be sore come the morning, but it felt right to be exactly where they were.

"Do you realize, we've been a couple for exactly a week and we haven't broken up yet? And we've had two proper dates." Greg murmured.

"Hmm, must mean we're for keeps then. Or we'll make it through another week at least."

"Sherlock-? I still think I love you."

Sherlock chuckled softly. "I think I'm coming around to the idea, that maybe I love you too."


	11. Epilogue

Epilogue

_Six months later_

Lestrade stumbled through the front door of 221b laden with shopping and almost collided with Mrs. Hudson who stood anxiously in the hallway wringing her hands.

"Oh Greg, thank goodness. Can you do something?"

"Do what, precisely?" He asked becoming aware that the sound of breakages and the torrent of abuse in half a dozen different languages was still ongoing upstairs. He checked his watch. Forty-five minutes; probably a new record. He wondered if Sherlock had even noticed he'd calmly left the flat ten minutes into his tantrum to fetch dinner and milk from the express supermarket around the corner. Probably not, judging by the fact he remained in full flow. He winced as another porcelain crash hit the door at the top of the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson, I may need to borrow some plates."

"Of course dear, but I don't think you should go up there alone. Call John. He knows how to handle him when he gets like this." She jumped as another roar was accompanied by two further crashes, throwing up her hands in horror.

Greg didn't point out that he was perfectly capable of handling his own boyfriend without the assistance of the ex-army doctor, but then he decided John was probably the one person who could guarantee he could get back into the flat unscathed and before the crockery ran out.

"I'll text John, see if he's free." He agreed.

"Good. How about a nice cup of tea while you wait? Very fortifying, tea, you know?"

She busied herself with the pot while Greg fired off a quick text to his friend.

**Are you free to help subdue Sherlock? G**

_**He reacted badly? **_

**He's breaking plates and swearing in Eastern European languages. G**

_**Shit! Be there in 20 mins.**_

John arrived in a little less, slightly out of breath and face creased with concern. He looked anxiously up the stairs where the litany of foreign abuse didn't seem to have abated much.

"He does realize you're not actually there, doesn't he?"

"Not sure to be honest," Greg said cheerfully. "Ready?"

John marched up the stairs and banged forcefully on the door.

"Sherlock, I'm coming in. If you hit me with any kind of missile I swear to god I will throw out every experiment and bleach this flat from top to bottom."

The stream of curses faltered and the next crash sounded considerably more half-hearted.

"Bloody hell, that threat actually works?"

"Only if you're prepared to carry it out, and he knows I would. You're too soft on him Greg. When he behaves like a two year old, you should treat him like one, otherwise you find yourself living on take-away for months because you have nothing to cook with or eat off."

"I usually find sex works wonders but that relies on me being able to get close enough to risk it."

"You can't reward bad behaviour, Greg. No wonder he thinks he can kick off like this and avoid the subject. Come on."

John cautiously pushed the door open and eased into the flat, preparing to dodge anything that might fly his way. Sherlock stood at the edge of the kitchen surrounded by broken shards of plates and mugs, glaring thin-lipped at the wall and actually quivering with restrained fury. He was barefoot, which wasn't good with all those sharp edges at his feet, and yep - there was blood. Not much but enough to concern the doctor. Greg slid into the flat behind him and instantly Sherlock's pale green eyes snapped to him and he let out an animalistic shriek, striding carelessly through all the debris to throw his arms around the stunned DI in a hug so tight it crushed the breath from him.

"_Where were you? I thought you'd left me!_"

"Hey," Greg whispered soothingly, "I went for food you idiot, why would you think that?" He was shocked to feel the other man shaking with silent sobs. "Come on love, let me go, you're squashing me."

The detective shook his head, burying his face in Greg's neck. "Never letting you go."

Greg looked helplessly at John over Sherlock's shoulder. John hugged the slim detective around the waist providing another reassuring point of contact.

"Come on mate, Greg isn't going anywhere I promise. He can cuddle on the sofa with you while I look at the cuts on your feet ok? You're bleeding on Mrs. Hudson's floor."

Sherlock loosened his hold on his boyfriend enough that the other two men could guide him to the sofa. Greg sat down and Sherlock plonked awkwardly onto his lap curling into him once more with his head on Greg's shoulder and his arms tight around his waist. Greg petted his back and murmured soothing almost-words while John began to examine his injuries.

"My answer is yes," Sherlock said shakily. "I don't want you to leave, please?"

"Silly man," Greg said softly. "I wouldn't leave even if your answer was no. We need to talk about it, but not right now when you're so distressed. I guess I shouldn't have sprung it on you like that but I didn't expect such an extreme reaction."

Sherlock hissed in pain as John did something to one of his feet. "Sorry mate, little bit of mug in there. Had to get it out," John said gently. He felt he was intruding on what should be a private conversation between the couple but it needed to be done. "There's a bigger bit in his instep Greg. Distract him?" Greg nodded to show he understood. He lifted Sherlock's face until he could look into those beautiful green eyes he adored that were clouded with some dark emotion. He cradled the detective's face in his palms and let his open honesty show in his deep brown eyes.

"If you don't want to get married, that's perfectly ok with me love. I won't love you any less and I won't leave you. I just wanted to make some kind of commitment. I'm an old-fashioned git at heart I guess."

He drew the other's face down so their lips could meet in a kiss that was both tender and fierce, and didn't even break when John extracted the shard from his foot, though Sherlock whimpered against Greg's lips.

John disappeared to the bathroom to find dressings leaving the two men holding one another. Greg ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair gently combing it back from his face.

"You're a mad, childish genius, but at least you're mine. That's enough, crazy man. Can you forget I proposed?"

"No, but can you wait a long time for an answer? It might be another six months before I'm ready. Or never. If it's important to you we'll do it one day."

Greg smiled and kissed him lightly, a tiny touch of lips.

"How about you ask me, if you ever decide you want to? I can be incredibly patient, as you well know."

"I love you Greg." He whispered, snuggling against his chest.

"Good enough for me, Sherlock. I love you too."

The End


End file.
